Clair McFarland: Writing Up A Test For Real ’Muricans

The twins have ideas of their own about what it means to be an American.

For fun the other night, I Googled the U.S. naturalization test, which is a list of questions immigrants must answer before they can become U.S. citizens. It contains questions like, “What is the supreme law of the land?” and “Who makes federal laws?”

The twins knew the answers to almost all of them. And though they didn’t ace the test, they remarked that they at least “A-minused” it — all while passing a football back and forth and jumping up and down.

I made a mental prayer of gratitude for their teachers.

The naturalization test is long. It asks things most Americans know innately, but contains the occasional curveball, like, “When is the last day you can send in federal income tax forms?”

The answer to that is April 15, which I never knew, because I let The Husband deal with all that icky grown-up stuff.

After the twins answered 40 questions correctly and dropped the football zero times, I could tell they were bored.

“We’re already Americans,” said the big, sweet twin.

“’Muricans!” shouted the little, feisty twin.

“Well, then,” I coaxed, “what does it mean to you to be an American?”

Little-Feisty’s eyes roved the heavens for an answer.

Big-Sweet pursed his lips to one side in contemplation.

“I think,” said Little-Feisty, “you ought to be able to eat 20 hot dogs in a minute!”

I choked on my tea.

“And I think,” blustered Big-Sweet, “you gotta know who Mike Tyson is!”

I frowned. “Who’s Mike Tyson?”

“Theriouthly, you don’t know?” asked Little-Feisty.

I shrugged.

Big-Sweet dropped the football. It knocked into Middleborn’s gumball machine but didn’t break it.

Middleborn roared through the living room shouting “HEYYYY! Watch what you’re doing!”

Firstborn, who had been pretending not to listen to the civics quiz but had been mouthing the answers from a nearby piano bench, saw his shot and took it.

“Don’t worry,” he told Middleborn. “That gumball machine cost a lot less than we paid for you on Amazon.”

Middleborn gasped. Unable to get out a coherent word, he marched out of the room muttering something about calling ICE on family members.

The twins put the football on a shelf and backed away slowly, as if from a live bomb.

They were just about to duck out of the room in silence when I said, “Hey. We’re not done building our test.”

Their eyes brightened.

“How many machine guns can you carry?” asked Big-Sweet.

“Five!” shouted Little-Feisty. He then asked, “Why does bacon exist?”

“Why?” I asked.

“For the pursuit of happiness!” said Little-Feisty, his dimples deepening.

Big-Sweet shuffled his weight onto one foot, then the other, as if holding back. Then, when he couldn’t take it any longer, he asked, “WHO WAS PAUL BUNYAN?”

I was stumped. So was Little-Feisty.

“Josh Allen’s grandpa,” said Big-Sweet, looking bashful and satisfied with himself.

Firstborn bit his knuckle so he wouldn’t laugh. He’s too cool to laugh.

I wondered just what kind of immigrants could pass our test.

“What day was ’Murica founded?” asked Little-Feisty.

Big-Sweet looked at me. I looked at Firstborn.

Firstborn looked casually at a rip in his jeans. No one knew the answer.

“Tuesday,” said Little-Feisty.

I scratched my head.

“What is the purpose of peanut butter?” asked Big-Sweet.

This time they really stumped me. Whatever their definition of being an American was, I was failing it miserably.

Big-Sweet grinned. “To make friends.”

Bursting with joy, Little-Feisty reached for a pen. “We better write these down and send them to the government,” he said. “These are the most ’Murican questions ever.”

Clair McFarland can be reached at clair@cowboystatedaily.com.